CHAPTER 94
WE WALKED OUT of the SVR executive’s office as though it was just any normal day. Dinara said something in Russian before she shut the door behind us, and the man’s assistant glanced up from her work and gave a knowing smile.
I was shocked when Dinara lashed out at the woman, knocking her unconscious with a couple of quick punches.
“Help me get her inside,” she said.
I glanced around nervously. Cubicle dividers prevented the other executive assistants from seeing, but if anyone walked along the corridor …
I grabbed the woman’s shoulders and Dinara took her feet, and we carried her inside her boss’s office, and laid her on the floor beside him.
“I told her he was having an afternoon nap, but the first thing she would have done when we set the alarm off would have been to try to wake him up,” Dinara explained as we left the room.
“Good work,” I whispered as we hurried along the corridor toward the fire stairs Erin had told us were located near Salko’s office.
We found the fire escape where we’d expected, and went into the stairwell.
“Ready?” I asked, and Dinara nodded.
I smashed a tiny glass panel, and activated the fire alarm. A klaxon sounded almost immediately, and we ran up two flights of stairs to the upper service level before the first people began streaming through the fire doors below us. We concealed ourselves behind an air-conditioning unit, and the stairwell filled with people chatting as they shuffled downstairs.
When the last of them had left, we hurried down to the twenty-first floor, quickly slipped through the fire door, and sprinted to Salko’s office.
“Connect us,” I said.
“Connecting,” Anna replied via my in-ear transceiver.
Salko’s room was locked, but Dinara and I grabbed his assistant’s desk, turned it to face the door, and pushed as hard as we could. The heavy desk surged forward and smashed the door open, and we clambered into Salko’s grand corner office.
“Go ahead, Jack,” Mo-bot said.
“We’re in the target’s office,” I told her as I raced to his huge desk.
“Plug the USB into his computer,” Mo-bot replied.
I pulled a tiny plastic USB drive from inside my shoe. Dinara had downloaded Mo-bot’s program onto the tiny device. After a brief search, I found Salko’s computer in one of the cabinets built into his desk.
“Come on, Jack,” Dinara said, watching the doorway nervously.
No amount of fast talking would explain away the wreckage. I thrust the USB drive into one of the ports, and when the computer woke, I was greeted by a password screen.
“I’ll take it from here,” Mo-bot said, and I saw a series of DOS windows open. “Shouldn’t take too long,” she remarked, and the password screen vanished and was replaced by a desktop home page full of file icons.
“We’re in,” Mo-bot said. “I’m going to copy his entire drive.”
A status bar filled the screen, displaying a job completion percentage. The klaxon, which had been constant since we’d triggered the alarm, suddenly fell silent.
“They’ll have started checking the building,” Dinara warned.
I looked at the status bar, which was three-quarters of the way along. Mo-bot’s tech was impressive. Copying an entire hard drive in such a short space of time was no mean feat. Even so, we were in a precarious situation.
“Anything I can do to hurry this along?” I asked.
“You can have something done fast, or you can have it done well,” Mo-bot replied.
“I just want it done,” I told her sharply.
“I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Jack Morgan, so I’m going to forgive your tone,” she replied. “Almost … There.”
The status bar disappeared.
“You’re good to go,” Mo-bot confirmed. “Just grab the USB and get the hell out of Dodge.”
I didn’t wait to be told twice. I pulled the USB drive from the port, and Dinara and I scrambled over the desk, jumped through the doorway and ran along the corridor toward the elevators.
We took a car to the first floor and stepped into a lobby full of people being allowed back into the building.
“They know it was a false alarm,” Dinara whispered, translating the muttered conversations around us.
We pushed to the edge of the crowd, and made our way to the exit.
“Salko,” Dinara whispered urgently.
I followed her eye-line to see a grizzled man in his late fifties. He wasn’t much taller than Dinara, and his wrinkled face looked as though it was set in a permanent scowl. The guy radiated ruthless hostility.
Dinara and I turned away from the man who had ordered the city scoured for us, and hurried out of the building.
My heart raced like a jackhammer as we walked away from the gigantic headstone, and the burning adrenalin didn’t subside until we were in the car and on our way to rendezvous with Master Gunnery Sergeant West.
CHAPTER 95
“ARE YOU GOING to be OK?” I asked Anna and Feo.
Anna shivered in the evening chill, and nodded.
“We have our cover story, if we need it,” Feo explained. “You took us hostage at gunpoint and forced us to drive you to SVR headquarters.”
“Mr. Morgan,” West said, “we have to go now.”
He stood beside the modified Land Rover, and eyed Veyernaya Street anxiously. There was no one else to be seen, and the surrounding industrial units stood idle.
“Take care,” I said, shaking Anna Bolshova’s hand. “And thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“Good luck, Mr. Morgan,” she replied.
I offered Feo my hand, but he pulled me in for a hug. “We’re family now. You let me know if you ever need anything else, American, OK?”
“Thank you, Feo. That means a lot,” I said when he released me.
Dinara said her farewells in Russian, and minutes later we were in the Land Rover, watching Moscow roll by as West headed for the embassy. When we were a few blocks from Bolshoy Devyatinsky Lane, Dinara and I returned to the secret compartment, and West smuggled us through the police checkpoint.
An hour later, having been debriefed by Erin Sebold, who was in awe of our audacious, simple plan, we were waiting impatiently in the secure meeting room on the third floor.
“What’s taking so long?” Dinara asked. “We should never have handed it over.”
“The tools they have in this building will outperform anything else, even the tech we have at Private,” I replied.
The door opened and Carrie Underwood entered. “The ambassador would like to see you,” she said.
We followed her to Thomas Dussler’s office, and found him with Erin Sebold and Master Gunnery Sergeant West. Dussler greeted us warmly, and invited us to take a seat. Erin watched us with a mix of glee and astonishment.
“I don’t know how you pulled it off, Mr. Morgan. You must have diamond-hard nerves. You’ve given us enough intel to keep our analysts busy for years. All of Salko’s files. It’s a treasure trove,” she said. “The downside is that Salko is livid. Surveillance footage clearly identified you. He’s accused you of being CIA spies and is demanding we hand you over with the stolen data. We’re pleading ignorance, of course.”
“You get anything on Veles?” I asked.
“A series of communiqués,” Erin replied. “They’re coded, but we’ve been able to decipher the most recent one. It orders Veles back to the United States to protect Minerva. Salko is concerned you might know Minerva’s identity.”
“Minerva?” I remarked.
“We’re going through any records that refer to Bright Star. There aren’t many, which suggests Salko keeps any data related to that program somewhere else, but there is a report to the President, saying Minerva is the culmination of the Bright Star program and will redefine Russia’s place in the world.”
“Nothing else?” I asked.
Erin shook her head. “There might be so
me other coded material, but that’s all we’ve found so far. Naturally the identification of Minerva has become an Agency priority. We’re coordinating with the NSA and FBI to expedite the process.”
I knew what was coming. I could sense the shift in the air. The plumbers had fixed the broken pipes and now the owners wanted them out of their house.
“We appreciate everything you’ve done, Mr. Morgan,” Erin said, “but this is now a national security matter. We’ll take it from here.”
I fought the urge to sneer, and looked at Dinara, who smiled wryly.
“You can’t stay in Moscow,” Dussler said. “Your continued presence here is likely to spark a serious diplomatic incident. According to our information, Director Salko is willing to tear the world apart to get to you.”
“We’ve arranged transit for you back to the States,” Erin revealed. “Wherever you need to go.”
“And Dinara?” I asked.
Erin hesitated.
“You think I’m leaving her here after what happened to Leonid Boykov?”
“A second passenger won’t be a problem, will it, Ms. Sebold?” Dussler asked.
Erin shook her head. “Of course not, sir. Master Gunnery Sergeant West will take you to the airport. We have a plane waiting, and we’d like to have you airborne within the hour.”
“In that case, we should get going,” I said, getting to my feet.
Dussler offered me his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. We can’t make any of this public, but we will try to clear your name, and I’ll be sharing a full report with the President.”
“I understand, Ambassador Dussler,” I replied. “And I appreciate whatever you can do. Ready, Master Gunnery Sergeant?”
West nodded. “Let’s get you home, Mr. Morgan.”
CHAPTER 96
WE LEFT THE embassy in the Land Rover’s secret compartment, and were one of three identical vehicles that set out from the compound at the same time, each heading for a different Moscow airport.
West had told us not to come out of the compartment after the initial search at the police checkpoint on Bolshoy Devyatinsky Lane. He was worried Russian intelligence would have picked up the presence of three CIA birds fueled and ready to fly at three different airports, and might have tied them to an escape attempt.
His fears seemed well founded, because the Land Rover was pulled over and searched twice en route to the airport. When we were stopped a second time, Dinara held my hand and squeezed it tight. We were in absolute darkness, so I couldn’t see her face, but her clammy palm and rapid, shallow breathing told me everything I needed to know. She was afraid, and, deep down, so was I. It would only take one exceptionally vigilant police office, or a failure of the Land Rover’s countermeasures, and our lives would be forfeited.
“You guys know you can’t search the diplomatic pouch,” West told the unseen officers.
We could hear them rifling through the mail sack above us. The bag was West’s official reason for driving to the airport. The police officers ignored his complaint, and after a few minutes we heard a grudging Russian voice.
“You can go.”
The engine roared as we gathered speed, and Dinara released my hand.
“Not much longer,” West yelled. “We’re a few minutes out.”
I was thrown against Dinara as the vehicle made a sharp right turn.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s OK,” she replied.
The rest of the journey passed in tense silence, and a few minutes later, the Land Rover slowed. We’d arrived at Domodedovo Airport.
“Another checkpoint,” West said.
The Land Rover was searched again, and we heard West explain the purpose of his trip a fourth time.
“I’m delivering an urgent diplomatic pouch to a State Department plane.”
Every panel was thumped and we could hear the beeps and alerts of sensor equipment, but even after a thorough investigation, our hiding place remained undiscovered. I could sense Dinara bristling with nervous tension, and I longed to be free of our cramped sarcophagus.
“OK,” a voice said.
The engine sprang to life, and the Land Rover started moving again.
I took a deep breath, and sensed Dinara relax, but our relief was premature.
“We’ve got a problem,” West said. “Two unmarked cars have followed us onto the airfield.”
My heart started racing, and Dinara’s breathing picked up again. Soon, I heard the familiar sound of jet turbines idling. We came to a halt and West applied the parking brake.
No one said or did anything for what seemed like an age, and I felt my body charge with pent-up energy. I needed to run or fight.
“Here’s the situation,” West said. “We’re twelve feet from the plane, by the airstairs. The two cars, I’m guessing FSB or SVR, are about twenty feet behind us. They’re parked in a ‘V’, passenger doors side on, so they’ll have a good firing line the moment things kick off.”
I hadn’t thought it possible, but my pulse quickened further.
“We don’t have a choice,” West said. “We’re going to have to wrestle the bear. I want you to come out as slowly and quietly as you can.”
I searched for the latches and opened the compartment. Dinara and I climbed out slowly, so we didn’t cause the Land Rover to make any telltale movements. Our presence was concealed by the vehicle’s privacy glass. West was in the driver’s seat, and he kept looking straight ahead as we took our places on the bench seats and closed the secret compartment.
“I’m going to walk to the back,” he said above the noise of the jet engines. “When I open the rear door, I want you to climb into the front and make a run for it through the driver’s door. I’ll cover you.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“You got a better way?” he asked.
I said nothing.
“OK then,” he continued. “On my mark.”
He opened his door and climbed out. The cold air that filled the cabin couldn’t counter the blaze of nervous energy, and I felt beads of sweat prick my forehead and neck.
I looked at Dinara, who was gripped by fear, but she nodded bravely. West’s steps became a solemn countdown as he walked round the vehicle.
He opened the rear door, looked at us both and said, “Go!”
I climbed over the front seat and jumped through the driver’s door onto the asphalt. The Gulfstream G650 jet was a few paces away, and a man in a suit stood at the top of the airstairs.
“Come on!” he urged.
I heard a voice shout in Russian as Dinara jumped out of the Land Rover.
“Stop!” another Russian voice yelled in English.
I grabbed Dinara’s arm and we started running as the first shots rang out. I glanced over my shoulder to see the silhouette of men ducking for cover behind two unmarked vehicles as Master Gunnery Sergeant West pinned them down with pistol fire.
Dinara and I raced up the short run of steps, and the suited man bundled us inside and closed the door.
“Go! Go! Go!” he hollered.
The engines roared and the G650 started to move.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Morgan, Miss Orlova,” the suited man said. “My name’s John Hudson, and I’m here to make sure you get home safely.”
I sat port side and looked back to see West raising his hands in surrender. One man confiscated his weapon, two more took him into custody, and a fourth spoke furiously into a radio. But whatever he was saying and whoever he was saying it to couldn’t stop the inevitable, and moments later the engines surged, and we took to the sky.
I glanced at Dinara, who smiled with relief as we left Moscow.
CHAPTER 97
DINARA REALIZED SHE was trembling. She never got airsick, but she was feeling a profound nausea that made her toes curl. She knew it was nothing to do with the Gulfstream’s steady progress. She’d fled her homeland with nothing more than the clothes on her back. She’d made enemies of some extremely
powerful people, and she was going to America as a refugee. She’d lost her friend and colleague, and the life she’d known was gone. Her mind whirled with questions. Could she ever go home? What would she do when they arrived in America? Would she ever be safe?
The man who’d introduced himself as John Hudson emerged from the cockpit. He reminded Dinara of a young Tom Cruise.
“I was just on the horn with Erin Sebold,” he said. “She’s glad to hear we made it. The pilot says the control tower tried to rescind our flight clearance, but we were already airborne.”
Hudson took a seat at the same table as Jack. The two men sat opposite each other, across the aisle from Dinara.
“We’ve got a couple of MIGs off our flank, trying to force us back,” Hudson remarked.
“I saw them,” Jack replied.
Dinara’s stomach rolled, and she fought the urge to vomit. She leaned over to the window and registered the silhouette and navigation lights of a Russian fighter jet off their starboard side.
“They won’t shoot us down,” Jack said, giving Dinara a reassuring look. “They want us alive.”
“The pilot agrees. He thinks they’ll stay with us until their tanks run dry,” Hudson said. He had a languid inflection, but Dinara wasn’t sufficiently familiar with American accents to place it. Florida perhaps? Maybe Georgia?
“You got any comms on this bird, Agent Hudson?” Jack asked.
“Mr. Hudson,” the suited man replied, “‘Agent’ would involve me confirming or denying my employment by a government agency, and in truth I prefer plain old John. But, to answer your question, we’ve got whatever you need.”
“I think Karl Parker saw someone he recognized—a Bright Star agent,” Jack revealed. “You remember what you said to me?” he asked, turning to Dinara. “About never being able to hide who you really are? These kids were brainwashed into thinking they were doing right by Russia, but I think Karl Parker was fundamentally a good man. I think he asked me to New York to tell me the truth.”
Private Moscow Page 24
